Glorior, how bleakly this foretelling…Amorously, the harrowing emptiness…Confessedly, the sweetness of the abyss’s preeminence…Endlessly, falling, as though felled in lightless bliss…Beholdest, the absence of the absolutist…Darkly, the embrace of this emptiness…As though, the sorrow seems bellowing, ceaseless…like downtrodden torrents.

The darkness, so beautiful, and the fading times, so profound…Are we not allowed one fleeting remembrance of your esoterica, of your infallible nature?But one eternalizing glimpse…into your reachless, and darkest abyss?What is love if not a lie? Love is a falsehood, a promise made to the predetermined and conformed masses…a deceit of prominent allusive dissidence…Love once had, nevermore to be foreshadowed; loneliness once beheld, forgotten to the dusts of time…

Once lived, always loved…once alone, always destined to be alone.These are intrinsic truths, absolutes… Life is meaningless, afar, from inception, to times’ farewelling…there is but one truth: the futility of life, contradicted, dismayed to elusive dilemma…from thenceforth the bore pain, unto the suffered desperation of forgotten bane… Henceforth, to death, and nothingness, evermore to desist, this far sided the bleakest truth of the nihilist.